by Aimee Salter
Every bad thing that happened here comes roaring back, flashing through my head in a roll-call of betrayal. Can I really do this? Can I really spend hours in this house and not lose my mind?
I have one hand on my keys and am seriously considering reversing back out those gates—steel reinforcement be damned—when a knock on my window almost sends me through the ceiling.
Clutching my heart, I glare, expecting Tommy. Instead, I’m faced with the biggest man I’ve ever seen. He’s in dark jeans and a hoodie that looks expensive. But it’s hard to tell because he’s so big, he’s bent double to get his face at my window and is motioning for me to wind the window down.
I’d have to turn the car back on to make the windows move, so I open the door instead. The guy dances back far more nimbly than I’d expect of someone his size, one hand at his waist, his face expressionless as he watches me get out of the car.
“H-hello,” I say, grabbing my bag as I get out and clasping my hands at my waist because they always shake when I’ve had a shot of adrenaline like that. “I’m Kelly. I’m here to see Crash. And Tommy?”
“Miss Berkstram,” the guy says in a voice even deeper than Tommy’s. “The guys call me Merv. I’m the Crash Happy security director. I’ll take you inside in a moment, but before we go in, I’ll need to search your bag. And I have a form for you to sign.” He pats his pockets like he’s looking for something.
My stomach sinks. Dan has told me countless times I’m not to sign anything without him. I’m sure he wants me in Crash and Tommy’s world, but I’ll have to call him to check, just in case. And what if he says no? A familiar wave of anxiety starts at the back of my neck and washes down as Merv says, “. . . And you’ll need to submit to a gentle frisk. I can call one of our female officers to the house if you’d prefer, though that will take about twenty minutes—”
“Merv, for fuck’s sake!”
I snap my head around to find Crash stalking around the side of the house—as much as a person can stalk when storming over a gravel path in bare feet. But the humor of that bristling tip-toe won’t hit me until later. At this moment, my heart skips a beat because I think I’ll be forced to go home, and Crash might assault someone before I do. He looks furious, pointing at the huge man to my left, the veins in his forehead standing proud.
Merv chuckles and his hands come up as Crash steps onto the cobbles and hurls himself across the driveway, shoving at Merv’s massive bicep. “You’re scaring her, asshole. I’m serious!”
Merv puts one humongous paw on Crash’s shoulder, giggling.
I stare at them in shock. The laughter slides off his face like butter off a hot pan.
“Did I scare you, Kelly?” he rumbles, concerned for me, but ignoring Crash’s cursing shoves.
My mouth is open and I can’t seem to close it.
“I told you to leave her alone!”
Merv’s forehead furrows. “It was a joke, Ms. Berkstram. I’m sorry if I scared you. I was teasing.”
Crash has stopped trying to hit him, but glares. I look back and forth between them for a second.
“You aren’t security?”
“Oh, I am,” Merv says with a smile, white teeth flashing behind thick lips. “But I’m off-duty. And you don’t have to sign anything. Or be frisked. I was just playin’.”
“Not. Funny.” Crash glances at me, his anger softening to hesitation. He’s no longer pale with blue shadows under his eyes like he was last week in the hospital. He’s back to his golden-tan, vital self, a sleeveless band t-shirt only emphasizing the iron cords of muscle winding up his arms.
Merv holds out the hand he doesn’t have clamped on Crash’s shoulder. “I’m Merv.”
“Hi, Merv.”
The huge man claps Crash’s shoulder. Crash almost overbalances. “Nice to meet you, Kelly,” he says solemnly, then offers me his arm, winking when that side of his face is hidden from Crash. “Can I walk you up?”
“That would be lovely, Merv,” I say, patting his arm like I’m not sinking in dread and self-doubt.
A tiny noise leaves Crash’s throat, but I grab my bag and let Merv lead me around the side of the house—along the gravel path that forces Crash to hobble because of his bare feet—towards some stairs that climb the side of the house.
The bi-level deck.
And the lawn that will be on the other side of it.
And the house looming to my right.
And, hell, I’m back in this place where the very best and very worst days of my life happened.
I stumble on nothing and Mervin’s free hand presses mine into his steel arm. “Watch your step, Kelly. Crash’s insurance is patchy.”
Crash snorts behind us.
“I’m fine,” I say, but it’s faint.
We climb the stairs—Merv insisting I go first—and the massive deck that runs almost the entire length of this house, opens up ahead of me.
It’s broad, gray-stained wood, a matching wood railing a couple sails attached to the house that cast shade all day long, and the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of—
“Coda!” I gasp, dropping my bag and kneeling as Crash’s gorgeous old labrador cross, his muzzle much grayer than last time I saw him, gets up from under a table and limps over to me, ears down, his bottom tucked in, tail whipping a happy circle.
Coda reaches me and sniffs my outstretched hand first, then his tail rotors even faster and he huffs every few seconds, bathing my face with his soft, sticky tongue and shaking his head when I laugh and push his wet nose away.
“Coda, you sweet thing.” I put my arms around his thick neck, heedless of the dog hair that will cling until this shirt is washed.
Coda presses his broad head into my chest and sighs.
I sigh too, using my fingers like combs, up and down his back and shoulders the way I know he loves. He nudges me under the chin a couple times, but doesn’t try to back away, or get out of my arms.
I wish I could stay here forever. Coda will never hurt me.
But I can see how crooked his hips have gotten, how unevenly he walked when a year ago he would have trotted to greet me.
I pull back far enough to look at his adorable face, and he lifts his chin to lick me again, then sits contentedly, tongue lolling out of his doggy grin.
“Traitor,” Crash says behind me.
I scratch Coda on both sides of his face and he groans with pleasure. “Such a flirt!”
“Stupid dog,” Merv grumbles.
Tommy laughs. “Coda’s never warmed to Merv.” Then he goes back to fingering something on the guitar in his lap.
That’s right, the guys are writing. A new song. Probably lots of new songs. For their next album. For their tour.
I rest my cheek on Coda’s broad head for a second.
You knew it would be like this. You knew you’d miss it. They’ve given you a chance to be free for a while. Just enjoy it while you can. Don’t ask for anything. Don’t take anything you can’t live without when they leave again.
Crash’s shadow shifts as he keeps walking, letting the late-afternoon sun warm Coda and me. The skin on the back of my neck prickles because, even though he doesn’t touch me, I can feel his presence behind me, then beside me, then past, walking the slow shuffle he has when he’s got nowhere in particular to be.
Coda chucks his head to lick my face again. I let him go and he ambles around to follow Crash back to the table.
Crash picks up the guitar—a twelve-string I haven’t seen before—that he left leaning against the outdoor table and rests it on his knee in the thoughtless way he does because guitars aren’t instruments to him, they’re extra limbs.
A pang in my stomach threatens to make me shake. I grab my bag and stand, then hesitate. I don’t know where to go, what to do with myself.
With a grin, Tommy puts his guitar down to stand and swallow me in a hug. I wrap my arms around his iron waist and squeeze.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says.
My heart feels
too big for my chest.
Two hours later I’m sitting at the long, solid-wood table under the awning, pretending to do homework while the boys go back and forth over a song.
Merv left soon after I arrived, reminding us not to let anyone else in, and to watch the gate when I drove out. His concern that a paparazzi might try to sneak in as I was getting out made me nervous. Crash walked him out, then returned and shifted his notebook and pen to within reach on the table, picked up his guitar, and strummed.
The song they’re working on is a snarling, vicious rock song about Crash’s mom.
Lips like poison, flaming eyes
Burn and blister
As you bind the ties
That hold me.
Like a noose around my neck
Your thoughts, your words
They strangle and
Unfold me.
This song will rock. It’s spitting anger and boiling rage in a three-minute-twenty-second soundbite.
No wonder Crash’s fans adore him. He lays himself bare.
Then Crash gets frustrated with the verse, and the boys swing into the chorus.
I let my hair hide my face so I can listen without them knowing how much I’m affected.
So take it all and go
Whatever satisfies.
Leave and don’t come back
Since you’re never satisfied.
Everything’s turned upside down
You don’t know wrong from right.
So take it all, just take it all
And go.
Take it all and go.
Clearly, things between Crash and his mom haven’t changed. It breaks my heart to hear his conviction. He bites the words. But instead of moving into the second verse—which I’m dying to hear—he stops. Tommy does the same a couple beats later.
“There’s something missing on the chorus.” Crash scribbles a note on the margin of the page where he’s chicken-scratched the lyrics—full of cross-outs and replacements. He won’t settle on the final version until they record.
Tommy keeps his fingers flat to stop the strings of his guitar resonating but keeps plucking notes, the sound sadly muted. I feel him watching, but don’t look up, pretending to erase something in my notes.
I’ve barely spoken to either of them since I sat down. Coda’s flat on his side under the table, his back to me. I use my toes to scratch the base of his tail. He always thumps it when I do.
I refuse to look off to my right where the deck gives way to stairs down to the grass and that lawn where—
I yank my thoughts away from the memory and speak without thinking. “You need a response.”
Tommy’s plucking stops, and Crash snaps his head around to look at me like I startled him. He gets so consumed when he does this, he’d probably forgotten I was here. I shrink under his gaze.
“What do you mean?” Tommy asks when the silence gets awkward.
I wish I hadn’t said anything. But if I say nevermind, it’ll look like I’m just trying to get attention. So I clear my throat and answer. If they think I’m wrong, they can just say no. “The song’s really strong and angry,” I say, flicking an apologetic glance at Crash, whose expression remains blank. “If you had a harmony. Or a response. Like Danielle—” I correct myself when Crash winces at his mother’s name, “I mean, whoever—is talking back. Like she’s arguing with you—or sad about what you’re saying. Or something.”
Tommy stares and Crash’s forehead wrinkles and I feel like an idiot. These guys, my friends since middle school are literally world-class artists. Musicians, rock stars, celebrities. And I’m telling them what to do with a song.
Stupid! “I just thought it would give it depth. Or something. I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m talking about. Ignore me.” I pick at my nails, cheeks heating.
But a second later, Tommy says to Crash, “Like the way she is when she’s sorry,” Tommy says chewing on a thumbnail.
Crash takes a second to respond. “I always hate that. When she’s beating herself up. Self-pitying.”
“Do you have lines that would work?”
“I have words. But how would you put them in? There are no spaces. I suppose we could make space?”
“No, your timing’s good,” Tommy says, eager. “The verses are what you’re thinking, right? So whatever she says, it’s in the background, arguing with you, but not in front of you.”
“Maybe.” He bites his lip, but there’s hope in his voice.
I look up as Crash starts scribbling in his notebook again. Tommy and I both wait expectantly. When he’s doing this, he’s inspired and if you break his train of thought he can lose it.
Being here for this is good, but also awkward. I’m not sure I’ll do it again. I love being around when they write. But now I feel like an outsider. I was never an outsider before. I’m not sure I can handle facing that every day.
A warm breeze ruffles the page Crash is curled over. He’s left-handed, so without his other hand to brace the book, it shifts a lot when he’s writing.
But it’s obvious he’s got something because a minute later he drops the pencil and sits back, cautious hope on his face.
He tears off the sheet and hands it to Tommy. “Play with that,” he says, strumming again.
Tommy reads. His brows shoot to his hairline. “You sure?”
“Yep.”
Forgetting to pretend my attention is elsewhere, I let the music take me—through the first verse where Crash burns at his mother. Then the build to the chorus where, behind Crash’s crescendo, Tommy sings in a faint falsetto.
So take it all and go
(Never let you)
Whatever satisfies.
(Down again)
Leave and don’t come back
(I know you hate me)
But you’re never satisfied.
(Frown and then)
Everything’s turned upside down
(I’m changing, this time’s different)
You don’t know wrong from right.
(Only love can save me)
So take it all, just take it all
(There’s nothing left)
And go.
(No one but you)
Take it all and go.
(No one else can save me).
They cut off abruptly and I breathe again.
It isn’t quite right but I look at Crash. “I love it,” I say, and mean it.
“Thank you.” Then he looks at Tommy who’s trying different fingering on his guitar.
The only sound is the low thrum of strings not plucked, but tapped by the pads of fingers and thumbs, while my oblivious, former best friend pours his attention into a song because he doesn’t know what to do about me.
Meanwhile, the guy I fell in love with, and who hurt me worse than any other human being ever has, frowns at his notebook and scribbles on the chaotic page.
I want to sink in on myself.
This is what we’ve become? This awkward, stilted nothing?
“Kel?” Crash says quietly.
I startle and look at him, realize Tommy’s staring at me warily too. Were they talking to me? “Yeah?” It comes out much harsher than I mean it to.
“Would you sing what Tommy sang? I’m not sure if it doesn’t feel right because the lyrics are off, or if it’s just his voice. We need something more haunting.”
They both watch me. At first, I bristle. You didn’t talk to me for a year, now I’m supposed to help you write the next hit that will take you even further away? But the truth is, I’ve always loved singing with Crash. Even though my heart thuds at me to stop hurting it, I nod.
Crash stares at this knees as he strums the opening chords. He and Tommy sing the verse, then launch the chorus. I try to do exactly what Tommy did before, but I don’t think it works any better.
Frustrated, Crash shoves his notebook across the table and stands up. The notebook flutters across to slide into my textbook.
As I read the words the tu
ne plays in my head and I tap out the rhythm on my thigh.
The verse is fabulous. It’s the chorus that’s not working. Why?
I replay the tune in my head. “Tommy?” Crash is at the other end of the deck, leaning on the railing, staring at the trees.
“Yeah?”
“Can-can I use your guitar for a second?”
His lips slide up on one side and he passes it over without hesitation.
“Thanks.” I set it on my knee. I’m pretty sure I can play the chords, that’s not the problem. I really just want the guitar in my hands because I’m going to sing and the bulk of it always feels like a shield when I’m performing.
I stumble a couple times, taking too long to find the chord. But since Crash has his back to me, leaning on the rail, I ask Tommy to sing the chorus, make my voice pleading and quiet, and let my heart do what it wants to with the words of the response.
So take it all and go
(No, please no.)
Whatever satisfies.
(I need you in my life)
Leave and don’t come back
(How can you turn your back?)
But you’re never satisfied.
(I can see it in your eyes)
Everything’s turned upside down
(Turn around, please turn around)
You don’t know wrong from right.
(Don’t know day from night)
So take it all, just take it all
(Drown without your love)
And go.
(Don’t—)
Take it all and go.
(—make me no one).
I resolve the last chord and risk a glance up. Behind his sunglasses, Tommy gapes. Crash leans back on the rail, staring at me, arms folded across his chest. He looks easy and delicious and—gah.
“I-it isn’t her voice in your head. It’s yours. The part of you that wants her to stay.”
There’s a moment where they’re both staring at me, then Tommy says, “She’s right.”
A warm knot appears in my chest.
Crash doesn’t reply. I wait, my insides on the brink of shattering.
With a weird noise in his throat, Crash pushes off the rail and stalks across the deck to the open sliding door into the house, slamming it behind him.
